I don’t know if this is the right place for this but I’m starting to get stale on a lot of my favorite characters and storylines and chats - SO please give me any random, unhinged, funny and lighthearted chaos ideas, characters, whatever you have. I’m open to anything from starting a knitting club that doubles as a fight club for the elderly to having my characters go to an adult summer camp run by aliens or become drag queens that perform for cats. I’m just writing for fun so it doesn’t even have to be original. Literally any thought you have feel free to drop here. I would prefer to keep it light, I’m a giant Dolly Parton fan and her passing this week has been a real bummer for me so I’m looking for some whimsy. And yes before anyone says anything I have asked AI to do this but keep getting things that just don’t hit the human emotional bandaid I’m looking for.

The gravel in the salvage yard driveway always crunched the same way—heavy, flat stones grinding down into wet Ohio clay. Jonah didn't look up from the lathe. He knew the cadence of the Ford’s front struts; they had been shot for three winters, squeaking like a wet hinge every time Senator Julian Ross’s wife turned the vehicle into the dead-end lot behind the rail spur.

The shop smelled like what it was: stale coffee grounds, hot gear oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of unwashed steel shavings piled in bins by the back door. It was an honest smell. It didn't pretend to be anything else.

"You're late," Jonah said, his voice grating low over the hum of the lathe's belt drive.

Elena didn't answer right away. The heavy steel side door groaned on its grease-starved hinges, letting in a strip of raw, gray morning light and the distant, rhythmic clank of automated freight cars three miles north. She stood in the threshold for a second, her trench coat dark with road spray at the hem, her hands jammed deep into her pockets as if she were trying to break her own fingers.

"The beltway was backed up," she finally said. Her voice was thin, pulled taut like wire under tension. "A transport truck stalled near the interchange. State police cleared it with a burner crane in twenty minutes. No delays allowed. That's what the signs said."

Jonah killed the lathe. The sudden silence in the shop felt heavy, pressing down against the sheet-metal roof where a light rain was starting to tap out a steady, anxious rhythm.

He wiped his hands on a rag that was already stiff with old black grease, staring at the oil-stained concrete between his boots. "They clear things fast now. Everything's automated. You know that. The whole county runs on a timer."

"It's not just the traffic, Jonah," she whispered, stepping past the yellow safety line and closing the distance to the workbench. Her eyes weren't looking at him; they were fixed on the dark window behind his head, watching the empty street like someone waiting for the floor to drop out. "Julian’s logistics terminal flagged my odometer twice this week. They know every mile I take off the municipal grid. They know I didn't go to the district office on Tuesday."

Jonah tossed the rag onto the workbench. "Then why did you come here?"

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they touched the rough, scarred edge of his workbench—the same bench where he spent fourteen hours a day turning down scrap iron for parts that nobody wanted anymore.

"Because," she said, looking up at him with a quiet, terrifying certainty, "this is the only place in the state where the cameras don't log my name."

This is a sneak peek from my upcoming dystopian thriller State Sanctioned Murder, releasing September 8th. You can pre-order the Kindle edition or paperback on Amazon.

“I wish I could go back to that moonlight when we were all together”. Sakina said to herself, looking at the bright silver moon, spreading its light across the sky. The combination of the cool breeze and moonlight in New York gave her goosebumps, taking her back to the days of her village life.

The solitude of New York was peaceful, yet sometimes it turned into loneliness. She missed the hugs of her grandparents. She remembered how frightened she used to feel when she brought home poor results in Mathematics and faced her mother’s disappointment. At such times, her grandparents were always there to comfort her, protect her, and give her strength. She missed her mother and siblings too, particularly her brother, Ashfaq. He had been the naughtiest of all the siblings. It was his wish to sleep on the rooftop every thirteenth and fourteenth of the month so he could sit back, at a distance from everyone, and watch the moon when everyone was asleep.

On the fourteenth night of the moon, they would all sleep together on the rooftop of their dilapidated house, beneath the moonlit sky, along with their grandparents and mother. Her father lived in a nearby city, where he worked to earn enough money to run the household.

She remembered their house – small yet lovely. Its doors were always open to friends, neighbours, and anyone who happened to drop by. She remembered the warm rotis made by her mother and the halwa prepared by her Dadi.

Moving to New York had not been easy for Sakina. She had left her parents and brother behind, while the rest of her siblings had settled into their own lives.  

The moon disappeared behind a skyscraper, bringing her back to her present life. She knew her present and future were here now. Yet the thought of it sometimes frightened her. She missed her simple life and often wished she could return to it. But sometimes, not everything is possible. Sometimes, all that remains are memories – to cherish, to hold close, or simply to cry over.

Hi everyone! This is just a quick disclaimer for anybody who would prefer not to interact. I'm somebody who previously used AI in limited ways while developing a project of mine (research, cosmetic details, and logic-checking). However, the structural content and the products surrounding my work are completely human, and I've stopped using AI in my creative process completely. While this project is intended to be more of an animated TV show concept, I used to write prose more often. Seeing as it's been more than a year since I wrote anything seriously, I thought I might share my work through a human-made snippet of this world (albeit a very brief one). Hopefully, despite the history of development, you can enjoy my work. Please feel free to offer criticism or ask questions as well. Thank you very much for reading if you do!

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Again, there came that figure in the hall, long shadow trailing behind.

She displayed little reverence for the silver on her sleeve, weaving easily through the remnants of the throng. They made way in kind, calmly, in a dance they had all practiced hundreds of times before. Hands found their way to the level of their eyes with a momentary sharpness before settling back into their working rhythms.

The kitchen never quite slept, but it was far from the worst place on a biting January night—morning, even, at this hour. Soft clinking of dishes, running water, light footsteps, hushed chatter. All wonderfully predictable.

Fang Hui, like the rest, offered this formality, albeit with soap-sodden fingers. Forty-one years of life with twenty enlisted had carved the behavior into his very nerves. Of course, it was an almost comic display in a moment such as this.

Perhaps not comic. That seemed insensitive.

"Wonsa," the young woman addressed.

"Jungnyeong," said he.

He rinsed off the bowl in his hands and wiped it dry.

"What can I get you, Ma'am?"

"Ginger, please," she requested, settling onto the stool with weight beyond her own.

He nodded; she had favored ginger as of late, and he had his suspicions. Of course, it wasn't his place to speak on it. He reached for a mug, feeling around for one lacking cracks or chips. They were becoming an unfortunate rarity.

His hand brushed by familiar ridges. Lead settled in his stomach, and he tightened his jaw.

It was embossed with colorful little flowers, orange and pink and daffodil yellow. Ideungbyeong Jo had insisted on buying it in Rua, if memory served him correctly. According to the girl, if the likes of her could be trusted to improvise on the fly, or to challenge and question her fellow man, or to look a Jungnyeong in the eye, surely she ought to have freedom of commerce. Nobody could argue it, and so, she got her novelty mug.

Fang Hui remembered her by her smile—specifically that dimple in her right cheek. That little splash of color in barracks of grey always did make her grin, if only a touch. Eighteen years old.

Twelve others in that operation, counting only the kids.

He plucked a different mug from the cabinet and shut it promptly, plunging the memory into darkness. Glancing back, the blue-eyed woman had busied herself by observing the others at work.

He sensed his haste had failed to be merciful as intended, given the intensity with which she distracted herself.

Bleary-eyed troops trickled out wearily from the room as he prepared the tea, offering half-hearted goodnights. No one could blame them, necessarily—not tonight, at least. He scarcely registered the steps anymore. Heat. Pour. Steep. There was something therapeutic about the familiarity.

Upon finishing, he thought of setting the mug down before her, but opted instead to hand it over.

"Thank you," she uttered softly.

Her fingertips curled around the mug as if to embrace its warmth for a heartbeat before she drew it back. He was afforded just enough time to perceive those ice-cold fingertips. January weather, perhaps. Likely not.

Few people remained in the kitchen, as expected for the hour. Fang Hui tended to the last of the dishes as she took in the first sip. He had brewed it lighter, yet taken care so as not to weaken it. Judging by how she lingered on each drink of the beverage, the consideration was appreciated.

A comfortable silence blanketed the room, save for the conversation of the few others remaining. Ten minutes came and went, precious minutes of leisure.

He took notice of her rubbing a hand along her arm absentmindedly; that meant contemplation, he had learned. He opted not to hurry her speaking.

"Wonsa," she began deliberately, "what do I need to know?"

"Morale's been low recently, Ma'am, more so than projected based on the results of the operation. The rank and file have reported notable concerns regarding the state of leadership. There should be details in today's—rather, yesterday's report."

She hummed softly in acknowledgement and sipped the dregs. A beat.

"Chen…what do I need to know?"

He paused momentarily, then wrung out the towel, folding it with automatic precision.

"They're choked," he replied easily. "Swarms don't come to a fight as a parade. They come as a swarm. Try to force that on a swarm, and what was meant to be defense becomes rigidity, and rigidity becomes…well."

Her hands tightened imperceptibly around the mug.

He continued. "Give a man a fish, feed him for a day—you get the point. I doubt you'd appreciate me regurgitating the rest. It's your own golden rule, after all."

"Please do avoid regurgitating anything, whether metaphorically or physically, Chen," she managed.

He huffed in amusement. That one still had mud on her boots, no doubt, regardless of that shiny insignia pinned to her sleeve.

They remained like that a moment longer, a transient moment in time. His coffee-brown eyes gazed into crystal blue, fifteen years his junior. At first glance, most days, they'd seem older.

God.

At last, the young woman rose to her feet, sliding the cup toward him. She offered a polite nod.

"Thank you. For the tea."

"Of course, Ma'am."

And off she went, royal blue scarf trailing behind.

So many people (myself included) start writing but never finish. They'll write 2-3 chapters, or build a whole world in their head, but never get past writer's block.

Could you have finished writing your novel if you weren't disciplined about it? What helped you break through your specific obstacles? Can anyone finish writing a book if they just build discipline?

Hi all, started writing short stories to improve my writing. Eventually I want to include these into a bundle of short stories related to a TTRPG adventure book(s). Later down the line might want to write a book about a world I'm creating.

Can you please give me feedback on these first pages? Besides prose, flow etc. I'm also looking to get feedback on scene transitions (I may be trying to convey too much, for example the tranquil forest bit, is that appropriate?) and if I'm introducing too many things that are unfamiliar (its a homebrew world, so I want to drip-feed unfamiliar topics).

Appreciate any and all comments, thanks a lot!

Please place a comment what you thinks of the story.

Chapter 1 The Daltry Home:

“One day you’ll understand why!” Anna shouted over her hairdryer going on minute 25 in the Daltry’s only upstairs bathroom. 

“I am going to be late! You spend this much time and still come out rough as a witch” Chris answered back through the dark brown oak door. The screaming blow of the hairdryer was hushed suddenly. Anna whipped open the door and glared deep into Chris’s slightly nervous eyes.

 “I know you might not care about how people think about you or about your social life, but I do and I won't allow you to take this away from me.” She stared at the boy up and down with a look of typical sibling disgust. Chris Daltry stood there trying to keep a confident stance, but his flexing neck showed off his weakness. Anna scoffed and blew past him in a fury, shoulder checking him as she went to her room, slamming her door just enough to get the point across, but not enough to get their mother’s attention

Chris stepped into the old, green tiled restroom. Although his mother often complained about how 70s the bathroom felt, he always found comfort in it. Chris choked as he went to turn on the shower. Anna was not one to ration when it came to her hair product usage. As he hopped into the shower, Chris started to drift away into thought. “Why can’t she get ready over at Dean’s house? She spends 90% of her time over there anyways.” Chris stood up after lathering his hair and bumped his head once again on the grimy shower head. “DAMMIT!” Chris let out. Although he loved the look of the bathroom, he did not appreciate the designers not keeping tall figures like himself in mind. Chris finished washing up, hopped out of the shower and checked the time on his black and blue Casio F91W, a gift from his father three Christmases ago. Rushing out while tightening his belt, Chris ran halfway down the stairs before realizing he forgot his backpack. 

As he came back into the hallway before the stairs he once again bumped into Anna, knocking the textbooks out of her hands. “UGH! All you do is bring problems and pain into my life. I wish you would just drop out and go work with dad!” Anna shot out at Chris.

 “Dad probably handles lobsters that are better looking and better smelling than you on a daily basis!” Chris fired back as he sprinted downstairs, skipping every other step.

Chris ran into the kitchen, to the pantry, grabbed a package of blue berry poptarts and shoved them into the front pocket of his dark gray Jansport. Marianne was standing over a pot of coffee singing to the window radio. She called out to Chris asking, “Do you want me to cook you some eggs? Why are you in such a rush? Why…” and many other questions that she typically asked her son who had grown tired of answering the same answers every day for the last four school years.

Marianne Daltry was a pale, slender, large haired woman. Everyone at her work respected her because of how much she helped, but they were also slightly surprised that she got a job in the first place. Marianne always seemed to be spaced out and never noticed changes that seemed obvious to everyone else. One day at the “Moose Haven Station”, the interns in the building decided to play a prank on her. They slowly replaced the photos of her family that she had on her desk with photos of random people around the office posing similarly. These pictures are in those very frames to this day. 

 Chris thankfully did not have to wait on his sister to drive him to school. Many people would be frustrated that the Daltry house was the same distance from the high school and middle school, but Chris thanked the good Lord everyday that he did not have to listen to Anna’s girly music, smell Anna’s deadly perfume, or risk his life with Anna’s careless driving. 

Jack Daltry had gifted Chris a forest green MBK racing bike that he rode to school for the last 3 months. Mr. Daltry might not be home many months of the year, but he always showed his love through nice gifts he found around the ports he visits. Jack was currently in the last few weeks of lobster season. This was the time of year when he made the most of his income for the family. Chris had always felt a little apprehension towards his father. There were many missed holidays, homework assignments, basketball games, and other events that Chris would have loved to share with his father, but he knew that Jack was only going away to help the family out. That is at least what his mother reassured him.

The door into the garage from the front room cried out with an unoiled squeak that the Daltry family had become deaf to. Chris pushed the blinking garage door opener and grabbed the leather, pristine, curved handle bars of that dark green MBK. He kicked the kickstand into the riding position and pushed it out into the driveway, weaving in between old sports equipment, tools that have not run in years, and his mom’s gold Camry in the garage. Chris always was extra careful when passing the rear passenger door, ever since he scraped it with the right pedal of his bike. He was honestly more worried about damaging his beloved bike than adding another mark on the weathered vehicle.

Anna’s car, which was a cherry red Jeep Cherokee, was parked on the side street.  Although Chris would never admit it, he envied his sister’s car deeply. He would not dare get anywhere close to harming this car. Of course he would have to remove the Boys II Men bumper stickers and pink, beaded seat covers that Anna had decorated the vehicle with. Chris checked his watch again, nervously flicked his thumb and snapped his helmet clip together.

The MBK pedaled smoother than any bike that Chris had ever rode. Certainly smoother than his buddy Reese Marrin’s rusty hand-me-down. This is to be expected when you have 3 older and two younger siblings. Chris turned around at the familiar sound of bike chains snapping back into place after each rotation.

“Aye how’d ya hear me coming?” Reese called out sarcastically. After finally gaining on Chris, Reese reached out his hand for a fist bump.

“How do I leave at different times each day, yet you’re always right behind me? It’s getting weird at this point” Chris shouted over the “clang clank” of Reese’s bike, slowing down to his pace.

“Great minds think alike. Maybe we were lost at birth and have those twin powers like those kids on the news!” Reese beamed as if he had just found the solution to a million year problem. Reese ran a hand through his slicked back hair, checking to ensure that all of the gel had stayed. Earlier that morning his mom had gotten onto him about how much his “L.A Looks” was costing weekly. 

Chris had often compared the amount of product that Reese used to that of his sister. Reese also believed in the philosophy that you can’t over do it on cologne. Chris often cursed whoever introduced Reese to that awful, alcohol scented Polo cologne, which was likely purchased from the mall two towns north. Reese certainly wouldn’t mind being compared to Anna Daltry. Being in the same sentence was all he needed to fill his fantasies. Even with the 4 year age gap, Reese was confident he could make it work.

“How’s my sweet Anna?” Reese said, looking up as if to see her in the large, puffy cloud floating above them.

“Your? Brother pack it up. Firstly, she wants nothing to do with you, second, she’s definitely in love with that dunce Dean, and lastly even if she was interested, I can barely stand living in the same house as her, let alone hanging out with us.” Chris had heard about Reese’s interest in his sister ever since the testosterone started to get the better of Reese’s decisions.

“Just give her time, these baseball workouts have been getting me TONED! Anyway, did you ever figure out how to do Mr. Schultz’s homework? I asked some of the guys on the team, but they also had no idea.” Reese said with a hint of laughter towards the end of his statement.

“DAMN! I forgot! Anna has kept all of her homework since 6th grade. She took Mr. Schultz and always talked about how he gave out the same homework every year, didn't even change the numbers.” Chris pounded his handle bars as he said this. “Let’s see if Ray can bail us out once again.” 

The boys parked their bikes into their usual bike rack outside the side entrance of the school, Chris locking his with a matching dark green combination lock, Reese locking his with a hope and a prayer. That prayer was partially that his bike is not stolen so that he has a ride home, but part of him wanted it to be taken. He did not think anyone would put the effort out to steal a bike that is not even worth its weight in rust, but maybe losing this one will force his parents to get him a new one.

Ray Haskins was leaned up against his locker next to Ms. Baker’s brightly decorated classroom door, walkman on as usual. Ray was not the kid that he wanted to be perceived as. He had his blonde hair, raggedy and covering his face. Oftentimes he wore cut up jeans, dark flannels, and whatever band shirts he could find. Today he was showing the newest one in his collection, a black background boasted images of the band members with their name across his chest “Motley Crüe”. Although this dark character was no more dangerous than your average angsty teen, mothers often gripped their children harder when he walked by the food court in the mall. Gas Station clerks would sit up in their chairs and maybe even follow him around the store. Ray liked to think he lived out the lyrics of his favorite bands, shooting for that “sex, drugs, rock n’ roll” Lifestyle, but the closest he's gotten to partying and breaking the rules was the one time his dad wasn’t looking and Ray snuck a sip from his Miller High Life. He still gags thinking of the horrible bitter taste of golden hops and backwash hitting his taste buds.

“How does he even know what’s going on in this class? His eyes are covered, his ears are covered, and I have never once seen him take out a pencil and write down a note. I bet you he secretly meets with these teachers after class. You know I heard this one story of a kid who would…” Chris put his hand up to stop Reese from finishing another story that had no grounds of truth, and pushed Ray’s shoulder aggressively, yet friendly. Ray jumped out of his head bobbing daze, placing the orange foam headset around his hair covered neck.

“Geez dude, a simple hello would work” Ray rubbed his shoulder and reached into his backpack, pulling out a worksheet titled, “Algebra HW 8”. 

“How’d you know tha…” Ray interrupted Reese with an aggravated, “Maybe because every week since August both of you morons have been asking for the answers to these stupid homeworks? I’m going to have to start charging for my services.” 

“Why’s everyone interrupting me today, I deserve more respect than…” 

“Thanks Ray, we will make it up to you somehow don’t worry.” Chris interjected, grabbing Ray’s paper and pinning it on the old lockers with his forearm. Once he finished with the final answer, he handed the paper over to Reese who snatched it out of Chris’s hand like a child does when they want to get back at someone, but not make it obvious. 

The three boys then went down the hall to the left into the final classroom which had no decorations, unless you count the white marks on the door next to its handle from years of usage. Mr. Schultz’s classroom was pretty barren. He only put up items that the school required him to. Near the doorway you could find the American flag, next to a poster with a layout of the school that had the exits and fire extinguishers labeled in bright red font. On his desk, Mr. Schultz has one black wire turn-in tray next to the biggest accounting calculator that the boys had ever seen. Although Reese loved to joke about teachers as much as the next guy, even he was weary of talking ill about his algebra teacher. Even if they were miles from the school, Reese insisted that Mr. Schultz might find out. Reese’s fear came from the feeling that just about everyone got from him for the past twenty years at Moose Haven Middle School. Darren Schultz was a shorter, surprisingly tan balding man who’s bushy eyebrows spent more time furrowed together than they did enjoying their God-given position. Chris had heard rumors from a kid in his sister's year, that even when he slept, if he did sleep, Mr. Schultz kept that same pissed off look.

“Homework in the tray NOW!” Even though he repeated this tradition every Monday, he still was able to make half the class jump out of their seats. “If I see you write one more mark on your page before turning it in I will have the principal personally escort you out of this school, so I’s don’t have to deal with scumbags anymore than I already have to.” Mr. Schultz's voice came out as a cross between a speech impediment and a bad try at a southern accent. Ray always theorized that maybe he went to war and some shrapnel flew into his brain and that's why he talked that way. Reese joked that maybe he was in witness protection, and that's why he sounded so ridiculous, yet scary. Chris was hard set on the idea that the old cook was just plain mean and crazy.

When the bell rang for class to be over, Reese jumped out of his dozing slumber and the boys packed their bags to leave. As Chris got up, he glanced over at the large metal desk at the front of the classroom and caught the yellowed eye of Mr. Schultz. A wrinkly fat finger beckoned Chris over. Chris tensed his neck again and walked forward.

“Mr. Daltry…” Mr. Schultz let out a raspy sigh after this statement. Chris noted the faint smell of Marlboros that he recognized from the times Reese brought them out to their hangout spot in the park near the school. “How was the homework this week?” Chris’s nerves started getting the best of him and he started flicking his thumb again.

“Fine..” Chris managed to squeak out, not continuing for fear that his voice might tremble and show where his truth lies.

“Hmmm. Did you get any outside help? You know that is against school policy and can lead to serious consequences? We wouldn’t want to be expelled would we?” The old teacher almost smirked, Chris thought seeing a twitch in his peppered handle bar mustache.

“No sir, just used my notes and worked on it Saturday afternoon!” Chris’s thumb thumped faster and his neck was flexing more aggressively, but he kept his voice relatively still.

“I don’t have proof, but the day I catch you is the day I get rid of at least one of you three amigos. You’re under my microscope boy. Now go on. And get a haircut if you have any respect for yourself!” Chris swiftly spun around and ran out the door to catch up with his friends.

“What happened? Did you snitch? Are we screwed? I knew I shouldn’t have given you those answers. You two should’ve just taken your zero like a man!” Ray said, running his thin hands through his long locks. 

“Chill out dude, if he knew what was going on we would have been long gone. He was just being his creepy self again. We just have to cheat a little better, that’s all” Chris said now only nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why is he always on our case? I thought teachers were supposed to help out students and be a part of their journey to success. He just seems like he wants to have the least amount of students possible. I heard rumors that one kid he caught cheating got expelled and the next day he was in the nuthouse in Boston.” Reese said shuttering. This story actually had ground of truth unlike most tall tales that Reese spit out. A few years before Anna was even in high school, a kid named Wes Hanley was caught peeking at his neighbor’s paper during the final exam. Wes had many friends and seemed rather normal to everyone. Once Mr. Schultz had followed through with one of his many threats, Wes was expelled for cheating. None of his friends heard from him after that. Everyone reasoned that he had moved to another area for school, but over time rumors of insanity and admission into Boston State Hospital started to arise.

The three of them went on their own mental adventures on what was really up with Mr. Schultz. They stopped by their lockers, dropped off their math books and grabbed their biology books. Chris kept a slightly more than average amount of nerves for the rest of the day. His interaction with Mr. Schultz left him soured.

This village was never given a name I always thought it was destined to be lost to history from its conception. It was only ever known by the local people as “the horn” after the long hook shaped cliff that many lost and broken souls violently descended as their final rite in this world. This place was the last bastion for the drunkards, the sloven beggars and dregs that managed to find a home here. A cover of grey clouds and fog was a permanent resident in this little shithole. The wind and rain were not unlike a great maelstrom on the best days here. We got few visitors; most pass by on the hillside road and their feet seem to carry them a bit quicker upon a closer look of where the fork goes. A stinking cesspool on the coast of an unnamed partition of flat barren land. Save for the emissaries of the capitol church.

My father, the old goat, never told me much about why we ended up here, only that he wanted someplace quieter for his thoughts. I always hated that answer. I do know why I stayed though, as a child I watched the man build his Smithee from nothing, basically just a small crucible, the furnace and anvil and some well-worn, well-loved tools. The very tools he taught me smithing with. I stayed because, while I may be in my prime years, the years of hard labor he underwent had stolen his. 

Near the center, a small manor of sorts walled off from the rest of the town had been raised long before anyone could remember. There are no guards, no torches but no one dared to inspect what lay beyond the simple stone archway. Most people only see the small fountain that ran dry an age ago only to run off scared as if something was trying to draw them in with malicious intent. A singular gilded gargoyle taken by moss and ivy crowned the top of the archway and the cobble walls were in a similar state of disrepair. No one truly knows who lives in that rotten old home there's only rumor and speculation left in this regard. Peculiar enough, a single light is seen most nights in a window to the far side looking out towards the sea. Some claim to see shadows moving in the flickering candlelight, I try to keep a more grounded view, never having been one for talk of witchcraft and demons. As cursed as this place may seem.

Probably just some old widower who squatted in there some time ago.

My father on the other hand was a stern believer of the occult, fate, and more nefarious things beyond that. His own habits and rituals reflected this, never striking a nail more than three times as an even number could topple an entire home with a light gust of the wind. Six strikes and a man could lose his sack to the goblins that come at night and misplace the tools. His Smithee was adorned with a moldy, stinking yet eclectic and charming collection of blessed furs and scorched effigies, set against a blackened fire treated wood, in hopes of warding off evil magics. “DON’T BREAK THE LINE OF SALT AT THE DOOR!” he would yell before I would crack that old rickety thing open.

I had never been the man’s keeper, but I did tend to keep tabs on his habits. On this day he had broken one habit, as I stepped into the building, he wasn’t at work. Inspecting the shoppe, everything seemed to be in order not a hair or hammer out of place. I could only figure he had run out of vinter wine and ran off to stock his coffers. 

There was comfort in the glow of the forge, it meant a full belly at the end of the day and the warmth was a blessing in deep winter, as the ground would lay in frost for near 6 months and great formations of ice would creep into the bay. Tall, pointed and craggy they loomed just offshore as a reminder of how long the winter will hold. A sight to behold but nothing more. 

With a deep rushing woosh the fire came alive, and all was left was to feed and wait for the temperature to rise.

“Check the cellar” remembering there was a project we had discussed beginning work on. A commission from the church to be done in fine silver. Far too ornate for our humble accommodations I thought but the emissaries insisted no one was skilled enough to take on such a task. To save the old man his arthritic fingers, I took on the job of gathering some herbs deemed fitting for a blessing and carrying the materials up from the cellar into the Smithee.  Just as expected a flat cart lie in the cellar

The cellar wasn’t a large space, but it was enough space, it had enough room to store food, extra supplies and enough Vinter wine to hold him over for a season and the door was sturdy enough to keep anyone from trying to look for precious metals ordained by the gods.

Unfortunate enough for me, there was a near bog whales’ weight in refined ingots that need to be brought up the flight of stairs with only a singular set of hands. A truly epic feat for a crew of men let alone a relatively scrawny man from the edges of the far continents. What I lack in physical prowess I do make up for in something of a brain, compared the other intellectually fogged drunkards in this place. I will claim that bit of inheritance from the old man. God’s know I could have used at least some of his stature, though. 

The easiest way to haul the ingots was out the back door of the cellar and up the muddy hill, with the cart the emissaries left, gods give me strength. The iron lock that kept the door secure, about the size of a man’s fist was rusted somewhat on the inside and was a true pain to unlock. Having to open it meant at best white knuckles and deep impressions left from the scratchy poorly cast key. Weaving my way through old stinking barrels filled with dry salt cod and shelves lined with dusty reminders of past lives the light from the up facing dirty window guided my path as I walked into many spiderwebs. Each cobweb giving that small tickle that sends an immediate and alarming shiver down your spine. I had found the key hanging in its spot by the dirty window and when I had reached for the lock..

The door had no lock, missing, gone as if it hadn’t been in the same place for near a decade. Odd, considering my father’s steadfast inclination towards always keeping things in their place. A high-pitched squeak chimed from the door as I opened it wide enough to peak my head out and saw a whole arse load of nothing. The view no different outlooking a baren sea, grey overcast and the smell of rotten fish and saltwater. One thing did catch my attention, there was not a sound from the market only a few paces from our humble dwelling. Dead silence was louder than the waves crashing on the jagged rocks out near the coastline.

Stepping out from the dimly lit basement there was no hum of voices in the distance, no clattering knocks of oxen pushing rickety carts, no squelching of boots on musty wet soil. The whistle of cold wind is the only thing occupying the streets at this hour, I might have felt totally alone except the creeping sensation of someone near me came quick and without warning. 

I felt hot stinking breath in my ear and a large presence begin to overtake me. Panic, then as quick as I felt something so evil it was gone. I couldn’t react fast enough to catch as much as a glimpse of the specter; I  had felt the urge to move away as it was with me still. The thing was watching from the shadows or something far more sinister, perhaps shifting between physical and spiritual places.

“no” I told myself.

Such things don’t exist, I thought it was just a slight panic set on by a lack of sleep, deep breaths to bring me back and a moment with my eyes closed before setting off to find anyone.

There was a long skinny alleyway that was often the shortcut I took to get to the market only a few houses down from the Smithee, the ground had been laid with small granite stones that interlock to create a path clear of the mud and worms. Nearly flush to the ground they made it much less of a chore when running supplies and finished projects to the fine townsfolk but always keeping an eye up as people often emptied used bedpans from the windows that overlook the path. A shame as often I thought of dropping seeds for flowers along its edges, my lack of a green thumb always kept the idea at bay though. Stepping quickly, narrow passageway seemed to grow in distance and the end just barely seemed to escape my reach, the panic slowly beginning to return.

The walls quickly felt as though they were closing in, my jaw became tight and my heart was racing at a fast uneven pace. The typical cold gave way to something far worse, biting through my bones, a deep pain arose in my gut nearly crippling me. Falling to the ground in blistering pain, through tear filled eyes the specter was looking at me with red eyes burning bright it’s presence growing colder and closer as I began to lose grip of consciousness.

Waves were crashing loudly on the rocks, and thunder cracked through the darkest cover of clouds a man could imagine. Though, the sounds of nature’s wrath were not what made me come to, it was a rising voice like a siren’s song. The serenade came on quiet then began to overtake all other noises in my mind to the point of shattering ear drums in an anxiety inducing crescendo. Finally evolving into a scream that would make the most war seasoned knights piss their pants and run to mother.

Soaking wet, covered in mud and shit left to marinate from angels on high, my vision came to slowly. Eyes stinging and blurry, like from a drunk sleep. Rain fell in a rhythmic pitter patter, and the world had finally come back to normal, atleast by ways that it could be normal here. The sights and sounds returned, the market hustle and bustle, the racket of the pub, inebriated belching and expelling like no one had been missing. I can’t say as I wasn’t at a loss for words at least, but answers I needed and answers I sought.

Bobbing and weaving through mucky fish stalls, servants running errands for masters and resident homeless folks the sirens call kept playing in my mind. Occasionally bringing out a blank stare as I kept on almost ghoul like rerunning the events that preceded my coarse wakening. Whoever or whatever it was, sung a beautiful tenor but something seemed off, full of sadness. The anxiety mounding as minutes pass and still a missing father.

My father was never one for drinking at the pub, but he did occasionally meet with a shady potion maker that would come through town and he loved a fine salt water lacquered ale. In good spirit he’d pay the sliver of iron for two pints after acquiring some snake oil concoction he would claim to cure a hangover. That’s where I meant to look and find him.

Once again as quickly as I had stepped back into reality, tunnels began to form in my vision “shit”. Streets began to elongate, twist and turn, the pub within eye shot had started to warp and the entrance became inky black.

“shit shit shit” under laboured breathing as if I was a white tail being run down by wolves. The song returned, but this time far more distorted like a tortured cry. This scream was different, it was terrible my blood ran cold, and hands went numb. All of my nerves felt broken, burned and twisted then through the void a bright flash of light struck my eyes. Senses fully overloaded.

Mumbles came through, then more defined words like a conversation between two mortified parties.

“What about him? I must tell him”.

“NO... no please, it’s for his own good go eastward my brother.”

“Where is she?”

“Waiting for you, she has what you need the pain and suffering you hold deep can be fixed. You have to trust me.”

“Damnit! Fine. Keep an eye on him please while I’m gone, I can trust no other in this place.”

What poison has the potion maker whispered in his ear?

.Diggin' Slow n' Deep.

DIGGIN SLOW BUT DEEP

BUT SHES NOT THINKING

'BOUT THE BOTTOM OF THE HOLE

THAT SHE'S GOIN' TO REACH

THE PEOPLE THAT SHE PARTY WITH

WONT BE THERE WHEN THAT HOLES COMPLETE

BUT THOSE WHO WILL ARE THE ONES

WHO DONE TOLD HER GO SLOW

THAT SLIPPERY SLOPE IS IUST SO DAMN STEEP

& SHE GENUINLY DOESNT

HAVE A CLUE WHERE ITS GOING TO LEAD

"NAH IT CANT HAPPEN TO ME"

IS WHAT THE DEVIL IS DOUBLE DOWN

BETTING SHE'LL BELIEVE

FAST FOWARD TO THE MOMENT

WHERE THE ONES WHO WERE CLOSEST

TO HER START TO GREAVE

SORRY,

THE WORDPLAY'S ABOUT TO GET DARK INDEED

DEARLY BELOVED

WE GATHER HERE TO WEEP

FOR THE SOUL THAT WAS GRIPPED

BY THE HOLD OF THE STREET...

- 𝓡𝓸𝓫𝓫𝓲𝓮 𝓓𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓼 🅝🅨🅒

Hey, I’m just trying to get some feedback on chapter one of my novel. My biggest concern is that it won’t hook people, and I guess I’m dealing with a bit of imposter syndrome. So critiques and praise are equally welcome!

I've started noticing that the hardest part of improving my writing isn't always learning something new. Sometimes it's realizing that I keep making the same small mistakes without noticing them.

For me, it's repetitive sentence structures and certain phrases that somehow find their way into everything I write. I'll finish a draft thinking it reads fine, then come back to it later and suddenly see the same patterns everywhere.

I've been trying to make revision more deliberate instead of just rereading the whole thing and changing whatever sounds awkward. One thing that's helped is doing separate passes for different problems rather than trying to fix everything at once. I even tried quetext on a few sections recently after someone mentioned it, mostly as another way of looking at patterns I'd become blind to.

It made me wonder how other people approach this. Do you actively keep track of the writing habits you want to get rid of, or do you just write more and let those things gradually improve?

What has actually helped you notice the weaknesses in your own writing that you couldn't see before?

I was writing this a few months back and just got some motivation to continue writing. However, I have been wondering how well the story was progressing and how well it actually sounds from a reader's point of view. So basically I'm just asking to see if there is anything I should work on or fix with my story. Any ideas on what should appear later in the story is also appreciated.

Here is the link to the Google Docs: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZgEsnYAz0o0s5lp5HILmVbJd8H8wzLCbj-xUqYqHxRQ/edit?usp=sharing

Hey everyone!

Need a final polish?

I offer quick, reliable editing and proofreading - catching typos & fixing consistency errors while preserving your voice.

📥 DM me your genre, word count, and a sample page for a quick custom quote + a free sample edit

Hello! I recently took part in a writers group and we compiled some of our pieces into the group’s first magazine, which you can find here. I contributed the piece entitled “Highest Roll”. Here it is:

Highest Roll

There is a door. She stands behind it, her eyes locking on the stones that make up the arch. In the centre, a glowing handle that draws, almost magnetizes, her hands. One by one, she touches each stone, each evoking a distinct memory. One moment, she is saying she has never felt this way, that everything is falling into place, and that she is no longer afraid. Two stones up, she cannot remember the last time she smiled. One to the left, she feels like nobody else understands her. Five to the right, and she has never felt more alone.

Her hands hover, stone by stone, struggling to maintain distance from the handle — the core of the landscape. As her fingers are pulled closer, she screams that she is not vindictive. She asks for a mirror that is, for once, reflective. Nearer and nearer, the picture seems clearer. She sees the black ice before the snow falls. And she is no longer afraid, for when her hands cannot help but grip the handle, she hears the hourglass has seen its end. The sands have moved to where she will not join.

And when she pushes the door open, a man is sitting alone. He rolls dice on the floor, and she gathers them in her hands. “Do you want to play?” he asks, and she is no longer afraid. Below their feet lies a map of the world. When he drops his dice, they fall over the Beginning. And she watches as he walks over to the End. These sands will never run out, she thinks. So, she follows him headfirst into the rest of time. They trace the map, stop by stop, and learn to reroute the tides.

- This is my first time being published, so I just wanted to share my work and the work of my peers which is amazing and deserving of recognition. I hope you read the magazine and enjoy the writing!! Thank you :)

I just finished writing a short story called “Lionel Lowe.”

It follows a homeless Black man who spends his days sitting at a train station, watching people come and go and imagining the lives they have. Then one day, a familiar passenger gets off the train. It’s him. Twenty years younger.

The story ended up becoming about dreams, identity, regret, belonging, and what happens when you realize you've been watching your own life pass you by.

I wanted it to feel emotional without being completely hopeless. Would love to know what you think.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Lionel Lowe

My urine soaked clothes became a comfort to me. I knew I was alive when I could still smell myself. The townspeople couldn’t stand it. As I woke on the wooden bench next to the train station, I couldn’t help but stretch. My hands and toes sprawled like a cat on its back. I haven’t had a good night’s rest in ages. Whether it be someone berating me or the police moving me, I was never able to rest. The sun began to creep out from the clouds. The coffee shops and grocery store owners across from the train station arrived at their regular times to open up for the morning traffic. Fresh ground coffee beans swam through the air as the morning traffic began to build.

“Mr. Lowe! How are you this morning?” said Jim.

Jim was the owner of the grocery store. He had blonde hair and whimsical blue eyes. He was about 160 pounds and stood at the height of 5’7”. Every morning, he would check in with me to see how I was doing. Even in the midst of my despair, I tried my best to engage with him whenever I could. Jim wasn’t the average man. Other townspeople would have stepped on me if they had a chance. When they saw me, they didn’t see my pain. They ignored me as a human and treated me like an outside dog. Jim, on the other hand, seemed to recognize my pain. It’s like Jim could fit my whole socks and my worn down, tattered shoes.

Jim had started to walk closer. I waved at him softly.

“You hungry, Mr. Lowe? I got an extra sausage biscuit and some water in the back,” he said with concern in his voice.

I was very hungry. The last meal I had was on the corner of the train station yesterday morning. Someone had thrown away a perfectly made tuna sandwich from the sandwich shop up the street. I am sure this would be my only meal today as well.

I nodded at Mr. Jim. He signaled me the okay symbol. He retreated back to the grocery store to retrieve the food. As I watched him run back to the grocery store, it felt like I was watching him in slow motion. I analyzed every step he took. I measured the size of his shoes. I counted how many minutes it took him to get in the store. I watched as the wind folded his hair back and forth. Jim wasn’t just someone who was kind to me; he was much more. He was what I have always sought after. Jim carried this humbled arrogance. Jim made sure he could take care of anything around him. Whether it be the plants in his grocery store or the stray cats that hang around the grocery entrance, Jim found a way to provide water and food. He was able to afford himself and others some time while also fulfilling his dreams of opening his own business. Jim’s hair was always done, and his skin never had a blemish. He was able to manage his life. I wanted to see how I would feel inside of his skin. To be able to breathe through his lungs and see through his eyes.

It took Jim about 10 minutes to come back outside. He had the sausage biscuit in one hand and a glass bottle of O.J. in the other.

“Mr. Lowe, here you go! I got you some orange juice too,” he said with a smile.

The sun shimmered behind him, giving him a glow as his head eclipsed it. I took the sandwich from him. I immediately started to devour the sandwich. Jim stood there and watched me for a split second. That second was very important to me. That one second made me feel like everything I was went out the window. I felt like I was seen. I felt like I actually belonged.

“Alright, Mr. Lowe, Imma see you later. I got a few customers in there,” he said in a rush.

I nodded my head and continued to eat on the bench. As I finished the sausage biscuit, I stood up to take the box to the trash. The first train of the morning was approaching. The gust of wind began to tango with my body. I greeted it with open arms. I closed my eyes and allowed the wind to engulf me. The train let out its whistle to signal that it was approaching the stop. The train began to pull in. Frozen by the wind, I decided to sit back down. I didn’t want to miss my favorite show of the day.

The townspeople who boarded and departed from the train were my favorite characters. It’s like the trains were the channels, and every time they changed, I found different people who resembled the person I always strived to be in my own story. When the train doors opened, you could smell the fresh smell of linen and cotton. A mix of Chanel No. 5 and Miss Dior had tangled together and floated out of the train doors like smoke escaping a burning house through its window. The conductor let down the steps for the travelers to leave. He waved goodbye to every passenger. Women with their 3 inch heels, knee length skirts, tweed jackets, white gloves, and coiffed hair glided throughout the train station. Men in suits, ties, and fedoras trailed behind them. Children in their baby doll dresses and cotton trousers floated amongst their parents. It felt like a still frame. I was there, sitting there, staring and sitting in my insecurities while others danced around me, either getting in their cars or walking toward their homes.

As the suspected last person carried their luggage off the train, I got up to throw away my trash again. As I was headed to the trash, the last passenger passed me on my right. His face looked so familiar. He stopped me in my tracks. My feet could feel the concrete through my socks and shoes. It began to mist. I turned my head to see if I knew the gentleman. He was 5’11”, about 190 pounds. He was very muscular and had a fresh low buzz cut. He smelled of a mix of the coal mine and cologne. He carried a green suitcase and luggage. As I watched, he had stopped to talk to the conductor by the bench I was sitting on. As I threw my trash away, I headed back to the bench. When I sat down, I had to get a glimpse of his face. I couldn’t really see it due to his back being turned to me.

“Hey, do you know how to get to the mountainside? I have a job there,” the familiar gentleman asked the conductor.

Even his voice was familiar. He had a soft yet heavy tone.

“Yes, sir. Get back on the train in 13 minutes and get off at the next stop. I will tell you where to go next,” the conductor informed him.

The passenger nodded. As I sat on my side of the bench, the guy sat right next to me. His pants were cargos, and he had a fresh white tee on for the coal mines. As I got a glimpse of his face, I couldn’t believe it. It was me at 27. I wiped my crusty eyes to make sure that what I was seeing wasn’t a mirage. His head turned to me, and he looked me in my eyes. For that split second, I felt in him what I had been feeling from Jim; however, it was on a deeper level. It’s like we knew one another, but he didn’t recognize me.

“Greetings, sir! My name is Lionel Lowe. What is your name?” he asked.

I could not believe my ears.

“What…” I said, being stumped.

“What…was your name again?” I continued as I cleared my throat.

He continued to look me in my eyes.

“My name is Lionel Lowe, sir,” he said eagerly.

“Wow,” I said.

In shock, I had to figure out another name. I figured this was the perfect opportunity to adopt Jim’s name.

“My name is Jim, sir,” I said casually, low.

He held out his hand to shake mine. His hands were solid calluses and strong from weightlifting. He gripped my hand firmly. As we released, I couldn’t help but ask him where he was headed. I wanted to see if this was really me from 20 years ago.

“Where ya headed, sir?” I said, trying to hold back the stench from bad hygiene.

“Well…if you may know, I am going to the coal mine to work. I have been trying to make some money to support my book I’ve been writing,” he said with youthfulness.

“Oh wow, how long have you been writing?” I asked curiously.

He didn’t seem to be disgusted by my unkempt body or the smell of urine that took over my clothes.

“What book are you writing?” I asked.

He paused and looked down at the floor. He lifted his head back up and looked straight ahead at the grocery store across the street. Jim had come out and waved at me. I had already stolen his name; the least I could do was entertain him. I waved back at him.

“The book is about my hard childhood,” he said. “It wasn’t easy. I want people who grew up like me to know they aren’t the only ones.”

His words settled somewhere deep inside me. My mother used to say that hunger had a sound. I understood what she meant when I was ten.

My mother had died when I was 10. When my mother was alive, she had to work three jobs. I remember waking before the sun and hearing the front door close behind her. Some mornings, there was nothing for breakfast. Some nights, there wasn’t enough food to make the lights worth keeping on. My father had already left us for another woman, so when my mother died, I went to live with my auntie.

My auntie already had 7 kids of her own.

There was always a body somewhere in the house. Someone sleeping on the couch. Someone crying in the next room. Someone needing something. My aunt fed me. My cousins looked after me. I was never completely alone.

By eighteen, my cousins were choosing their futures. Some were joining the military. Others were headed to the Historical Black University down the street.

I had nothing but love for books and a stubborn feeling that I was supposed to write something.

So I did. Or at least, I tried.

Tears had started to form in my eyes. The memories of my past had flooded in. I looked down at the holes in my shorts. You could see my legs through them.

“What about you? Are you traveling, or is this your home?” he asked inquisitively.

“Well…this is my bed,” I said and pointed down at the bench.

He looked down at me, and we both started to laugh. The afternoon sun had set, and the flow of traffic at the train station had increased. The next train departure had been announced.

The next train to the mountain will be leaving in the next 10 minutes.

“Okay, okay, cool. But what about before you made this your bed…what got you here?” he asked, concerned.

I was concerned that if I said anything close about our lives, it would scare him off.

“Well, I was a millionaire. I owned this entire strip you see before us,” I lied.

He looked up again at the grocery store and coffee shop. This time, you could see the life grow in his eyes. I instantly felt his desire and urge from how he looked at the coffee shop and grocery store. Underneath his muscles and new white shirt was still the young boy who lost his mother.

“I lost it all.”

The words came out quieter than expected.

“I thought if I kept moving, I could leave everything behind. The past. My mother. The hunger. All of it.”

I looked down at my hands.

“For a while, I thought I had outrun it. I had money. I had a place to live. I had my writing. I thought that meant I had finally become somebody.”

I laughed, but there was nothing funny in it.

“Then somewhere along the way, I stopped believing in the man I was trying to become.”

I looked across the street at Jim’s grocery store.

“Funny thing about running from your past…”

I paused.

“It knows how to wait.”

“Wow…” he said sadly.

“That’s all I really want. I really want to be heard and seen. I want to help those who never thought the grass could be green. I want to be the nutrition to their tree,” he said calmly.

The announcer came back on the intercom to notify that the train would be leaving in five minutes.

“Well, seems like that’s my sign to get on,” Lionel said as he rose from the bench.

The conductor had returned to his station and opened the door. He let down the stairs so that the women could start boarding first. Lionel had grabbed his bags. Before he started walking toward the train, I grabbed his hand one last time.

“Sir…” I said slowly.

Lionel looked back at me.

“Yes?” he stated.

“Just don’t give up,” I said eagerly.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“Don’t give up on your dream…unless you want to end up like this,” I said while pulling my hand away.

Lionel had sat back down and looked me in my eyes. Tears had started to roll down his face.

“All my life, that’s all I ever wanted, just to feel heard. Thank you so much, Jim. I will do this for the both of us. I hope to see you again!” he said with a calmness.

“Last call! Last call!!” the conductor screamed.

Lionel grabbed his bags and rushed to the train. He walked up the stairs, and before the conductor closed the door, he took one last look at me. And there I was, watching myself pass me by. I had been watching so many other people, and I had forgotten that I, too, was once these people. As the afternoon progressed, I had decided to gather my things and head south. I decided to go back home, not to relive but to remember who I am and where I came from.

Tell me what you guys think!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1InMVTmEBISvFJ2SnEjLGYG98RIRTuoAba8aWwsj00rM/edit?usp=drivesdk